


Vein by vein

by Chimerari



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Pre-Movie, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People would like to think that soldiers’ last thoughts are of their Homeland, that they die articulating the causes worth fighting for</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vein by vein

 

He tries to carry on, after. Because it’s the right thing to do, the brave thing to do, honouring the memory of the dead.

_Yance, Yance, Yance_

Except there is no honour in dying, he knows that now. People would like to think that soldiers’ last thoughts are of their Homeland, that they die articulating the causes worth fighting for.

The last cry from Yancy was a barely intelligible gurgle of no, and please.

A part of Raleigh hates him for it. Yance, who curled his fingers around Raleigh’s smaller hand and taught him how to make a fist; who dragged him to the Academy yelling _hell yeah, let’s kick some real ass_ ; who, when it comes down to it, has always been the better pilot, the better man.

Who’s finally ripped away the last shiny veneer over Death.

The face beneath the veil is not a face at all.

 

 

He tries to stay on as a pilot, the first attempt at Drift sends his co-pilot straight to the infirmary, then as a tech. They always need more techs: Jaegars to be repaired, comms to be re-established.

He throws up at the sight of Gipsy, their (his, his) beautiful Gipsy, who’s defended them this far into the war, lying there like a roadkill.

‘Hey, girl.’ He wipes his mouth, smooths a hand over the nearest dent. The rest of the words won’t come out.

The silence sounds like a scream.

 

 

They used to dream the same, when they started to Drift. It’s not as weird as it sounds; staring at something for too long and your brain still thinks it’s there when it’s not.

They could always tell whose dream it was. Yancy, the big sap that he was, dreamed about fields and birds and puppies, cotton candy and fairground rides. Raleigh’s were a bit more far-fetched: dragons lurking in shoe boxes, giant whales flipping out of cobbled pavement--its back a dark, oiled arch--before sinking into the ground again.

They did **not** talk about the one with the girl they failed to hit on in a bar.

Now he dreams about drowning, over and over, inky waves rise above his head. The water so cold it crushes the air right out of his lungs.

He wakes up gasping, tears wrung out of him unbidden.

 

 

Sleeping pills can only give him a couple hours a night. So he turns to something else, a finger of rotgut before bed. Don’t wanna drink this without your hand on something sturdy, son, the seller plucks the notes out of his fingers with a gap-toothed smile.

He quickly discovers, like many men before him, that liquor has the ability to mould time. He reaches for the jar before his eyes are open, the cloudy liquid burns all the way down, hot enough to jolt him out of bed, the ground rises up to meet him.

The hurt is still there but hazier, blunt enough he can swallow it down.

He learns to brush his teeth until his gums bleed, scrubs his skin to get rid of the stench before he reports for duty. Walks with his head low and shoulders hunched, so people won’t notice, won’t ask.

It’s no use. The stuff sweats out of him, crystalizes along his hair line, straining the work bench in yellow patches, sour sharp.

He draws a line at the white powder though. Where they grew up, there were users: skeletal, flat eyed. The first time he ran smack into a dead body, it wasn’t from a Kaiju attack, just a plain old junkie with a syringe in his arm, dirty feet dotted with needle tracks. Yancy pulled him aside and hissed if you ever touch that stuff, you punk, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you dead.

To this day, the iron in his brother’s voice sends a shiver down his spine.

 

 

Stacker calls him to his quarter, no pleasantries, no pretence, just says your hand, Ranger.

His heart sinks, but he holds out an arm nonetheless.

The shake starts at the tip of a finger, then two, spiralling up joint by joint until his jaw aches with the effort to keep his arm steady.

He drops the hand and walks out. Stacker doesn’t stop him.

 

 

He goes back to the old underground ring. The pay is for shit but they don’t ask for qualifications, or ID. It’s a release, another body moving against his own. A fist to the jaw works just as well as a mouthful of dodgy homebrew.

People used to pay to see the two of them fight against each other, now that was the real dance: the circling, the goading, puffing of the chests, right before Raleigh, always Raleigh, threw the first punch.

Nothing permanent, nothing that they couldn’t patch up themselves, that was their deal. It wasn’t even about the money. It was a grapple for power. Because Raleigh was tired of asking what neither of them knew the answer to.

‘T’s gotta be more.’

‘Huh?’

‘More than this. Eat, shit, breathe.’ Working your fingers to the bone until a fight gone wrong, or the next Kaiju, whichever got here first.

The young ones watch him like sharks in water: one half of the famed Becket brothers, big Jaeger pilots now rolling in the mud with the rest of humanity.

He lets them, pays them no mind.

The crowd buzzes, pushing and shoving to get closer to the platform, crisp notes slapped into palms by the handful, passing from one to another. People curse and shout out numbers, the shrill sound almost immediately gets drowned out.

All he sees is the kick, coming at him as if in slow motion.

He takes a hit, spits out a glob of red, gets up, rinse repeat. His body curls protectively over the vulnerable places while his mind is bouncing up there in the fluffy clouds.

_But what? Fer Christ’s sake, what is it you want?_

Even Yance’s flat drawling vowels sound different in his head these days, tinny.

With each fight he bruises more, takes longer to recover. His left arm is weaker, slower, even though he’s been cleared by the best docs in the world.

Duh, it’s all in your head, baby brother.

Figures, even as a fragment of his imagination, Yancy can be a real dick.

 

 

He stays in the ring for nine months until he’s told to go.

Kid, you’re not making me any money, haven’t for a while.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. he stares back.

Nobody wants to bet on a lost cause. And I ain’t troubling my fighters to kick a dog when it’s down.

 

 

It would have been ideal for Yancy to play the father figure after theirs upped and left. Instead, he got given a stash of condoms and a red lipped brunette on his 16th birthday.

Raleigh had honestly thought they were going to see a movie, something with explosions, popcorn if he was lucky.

Yancy rolled his eyes.

‘Nobody comes to a drive-in to watch a movie, dumbass.’

The girl giggled, kicked off her heels and started unbuttoning her top. That was when Raleigh groped for the door handle like a maniac.

Yancy let him stumble away three paces before reigning him in by the neck.

‘ **Relax** , buddy. It will be fun, I promise.’

‘Yance.’ He didn’t know what face he was pulling, clutching at his brother’s sleeve. He wanted to go home, he didn’t want to see the movie or the girl’s…girl parts.

‘Hell no, I’m not holding your hand through this. Just, do what comes naturally?’

The tips of Yancy’s ears were turning pink. He yanked the door open and _shoved_.

Raleigh landed on his ass, flailing. Oh God, oh God, there was so much skin, slippery warm against his clammy palms. The girl tucked her chin over his tense shoulder, her hair a cloud of synthetic sweetness.

‘Any requests?’

Raleigh squeaked, struggling to right himself. Yancy pushed him back down with a firm hand, winking.

‘Just keep going until the hour’s up.’

Then the door slammed shut, the sound almost drowned out by Raleigh’s nervous swallowing.

Up close he could see the tiny lines in the corners of her eyes, the pastiness of her skin underneath the tan. He asked for her name, getting a _aren’t you sweet_ in return and a peck on the cheek.

Then he forgot all about the English language when she eased him out, stroked him once from root to tip.

Raleigh bucked up so hard she hit her head on the roof. His panicked sorrys degenerated into a whimper as she tightened her grip just a fraction.

He didn’t last long.

She was the memory that surfaced in his mind when they first merged with Gipsy. The same near paralysis that came with his new found power. Yance made a gagging noise next to him and they promptly fell out of alignment.

Yancy teased him mercilessly for a week, ruffled his hair and made kissy faces.

_Practically raised you, didn’t I? Raised you up from a clueless little lamb._

 

 

He doesn’t know why he’s drawn to the tallest parts of the Wall, until he does. Gazing out over the edge of the scaffolding, something almost alive lurches in his chest, brining salt to his eyes.

He blinks and the angles sharpen on things: the streets shrinking beneath him, sunlight leaping off skyscrapers in dizzying circles. For a moment he imagines the ocean rolling in, the seabed groaning beneath Gipsy’s feet.

_Steady, kiddo._

Yance’s laugh echoes in his skull, _Don’t get too cocky._

It’s the clearest he’s ever heard his brother’s voice since Anchorage. And he almost lets go of the rail, chases the thread of phantom laughter down, down.

And the kicker is, he has to pause for a moment to think, to put Yancy back together again: his grinning eyes, a thin mouth that could be cruel but never was.

He climbs down at the end of his shift and gives the bottle he’s stashed away to a fellow builder.

 

 

It’s not easy. The shakes get worse and his concentration is shot to hell, sniffly and irritable. The other guys laugh, slapping his back and asking if he’s grown a cunt overnight. He guffaws with them, nails digging into his own palms.

When he’s working he can distract himself with the repetitive motion of swinging a hammer, twisting a screw. Once he’s back in his square metre of a flat, the want crawls back up: a pill for his throbbing head, a drink or ten to forget.

He goes running, feet slap slap on wet concrete, runs until his muscles scream in protest. Until he can hit the pillow and pass out cold.

For so long Yance was just Yance, needing no definition---the tall back he’s always jogging to catch up, the immovable presence to his right. Now all he has is a grainy picture and the hole in his head.

Can’t afford to lose any more pieces.

 

 

He’s been dry for nearly two years (102 weeks, 3 days) when the Wall they so painstakingly build gets knocked down like a house of cards.

The crowd reacts with vague disappointment. Then people disperse, shouldering their tools and shuffling away.

If he was still the old Raleigh he’d what, shout? Storm out? He pulls the jacket tighter about himself, feeling hollowed to the bone.

_Never liked backing down, we Beckets._

Oh yeah? People change, Yance.

 

 

He feels the helicopter before he sees it. The urge to run and hide gnaws at his guts.

It’s not that he’s a coward, he’s not. He’s just---

His old commander looms 3 inches above the ground like some goddamn superhero. Those who don’t know Stacker well will perhaps compliment him on how well preserved he looks. Raleigh wonders if anyone else notices the new feverish light in those dark eyes. The way Pentecost holds himself like an arrow, resting dead still against the bow.

And that, more than anything, pushes him to put one foot in front of the other, away from the crowd and towards the eye of the storm.

The end is here, whether he wants it or not.

 

 

_Took you long enough, baby brother._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't have happened if not for [this GIF set](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/post/55679744115/anchorage-2020-x-i-need-a-metric-ton-of-fic)  
> unbetaed, please do point out any mistakes  
> also, [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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